


Long Day and a Strong Drink

by hiddencait



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Domestic, Gen, Slice of Life, mention of original minor characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:25:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1888359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddencait/pseuds/hiddencait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two Rangers at the end of a bloody long day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Day and a Strong Drink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MidnightHeir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightHeir/gifts).



> So I started out writing a TMNT fic, and struggled like hell with it and frankly flat out hated what I was writing. A RL friend challenged me to try a Pacific Rim fic instead, and much to my surprise, this little slice of life fic came flooding out in an evening with what felt like next to no direction on my part. Apparently Stacker had things to say. I honestly love it when writing works out that way!
> 
> My beta is away on her second honeymoon/10 year anniversary, so this has not been betaed, but has been run through www.grammarly.com. If you find any remaining mistakes, they are all mine, and I apologize!
> 
> I really, really hope you enjoy this MidnightHeir!

"Bloody hell," Stacker murmured under his breath as he walked down the long hallway towards his quarters, just barely resisting the urge to give in and simply slide down the near wall to make a Stacks-sized puddle on the floor. He reached his door and sighed gratefully, glad to be home, and glad too, that he wouldn't need to fake any more strength for a couple hours at least. Fixed point though he usually was, it was nice to let go after a day like this one. A bloody, ragged day like this one.

At least Mako was out tonight, drug off to a bar with several of the engineering team, celebrating the long month gone by without an attack. It was worth celebrating, as always. Damned if he had the energy for it tonight, however.

He slogged through the entryway, habit having him kick off his boots by the door. It was one of the simple gestures he'd figured out made Mako feel that much more at home. Even now that she'd moved out into her own quarters and taken her place among the other geniuses working with the Jaegers, Stacker found himself clinging to those tiny day to day rituals. They'd made him feel at home too, or so he'd realized years after the fact. He wasn't on duty until he'd let himself take the boots off. Least it wasn't the bloody dress shoes, he reminded himself.

Today might have been fuck all of a day, but at least he hadn’t had to deal with the higher ups, all dressed up and smothered in starched suit formality. He was good at his job, he knew, but there were certain details he would always hate with a silent passion. Playing politics was one the first; sending death notices was the other.

Least he wasn’t going to be delivering any of those today. It could always be worse.

He made a bee-line for the fridge and the bottles of stout but paused with his hand on the door. No, today was a brandy sort of day, he decided, and turned to drag out the bottle of expensive liquor he kept in his study. He carried it back into the den, and set it on the coffee table.

That sorted, he retreated to his bedroom and pulled out his oldest, softest pair of pajama pants and a soft old university hoodie. Changing took but a moment, and he let out another sigh at the final slip from the imposing commanding officer Pentecost that so often intimidated his rookies to merely Stacks, a worn out old warhorse with more than a few years on him and bloody tired with them. He hung up his uniform, another habit, though one the military had drilled into him instead of his foster daughter. He dithered a moment, and then scoffed at himself and reached back to the drawer to pull out a pair of thick wool socks. He was so cold lately.

Stacker didn’t want to let himself think about why that might be. The tin of medicine he’d pulled out of his uniform pocket and settled in his pajamas had been enough of a reminder that he would never again be in peak physical condition. He was long past his prime now, firmly to middle age and weaker than he’d ever thought he’d be.

“Sod it.” He shook his head fiercely, refusing to dwell on the facts of his medical condition any longer.

Stacker strode out of the bedroom and back to the kitchen, grabbing a pair of glasses of the shelf and padding over to sink down onto the sofa. As if on cue, there was a soft knock at the door, and then Herc let himself in, still in his day uniform, though it looked more than a little worn around the edges. He kicked off his own boots before heading over to take his place on the sofa.

Stacker reached to pour them both a brandy, and Herc took his with a weary nod of thanks. Both men sat back and sipped their drinks in silence for a moment. After a few slow swallows, Stacker drug up the energy to finally ask the question that had weighed on him as he left the infirmary earlier.

“Harris?”

“He’ll be fine. Good as new in a week or two,” Herc replied and grimaced, tossing back a swallow with far less reverence than the brandy deserved. “Better than the brat deserves.”

Stacker didn’t argue. Harris should never have made it as far in the Ranger program as he had. Letting him in at all had been a favor to his mother, one of the engineers working on Striker Eureka. Deb Harris was a damned fine engineer, too, one who had both Stacker and Herc's utmost respect. How her son had turned out so bloody useless was a mystery, one that, unfortunately, had come back to bite them in the ass.

“And Eden?” Stacker asked, this time dreading the answer.

“We’ll be lucky if she regains any strength in her shoulder and that'll be after at least one maybe two rounds of surgery, the doc said.” Herc’s voice was bitter, and Stacker felt the same churn in his gut.

Eden had been every bit the potential Ranger that Harris would never be. 

“Bloody fucking hell.” Stacker debated on tossing the glass against the wall in a proper show of pique, but decided it would take too much effort. Damn Harris all to bloody hell. Stacker had known, _he’d known_ , that putting Harris in the program was a risk. But even he hadn't expected the rookie to end up injuring another promising pilot with his half-assed stunts. "He's gone first thing tomorrow morning. Deb'll have to just accept it. I won't have him in the program any longer."

“Already told her as much.” Herc shrugged and tossed back the last few drops of his brandy. “She didn’t seem surprised.”

Stacker finished off his drink as well, and then reached to pour them both another round. “Harris’ll likely be the only one surprised. Serves him right.”

“Too right.”

“Bloody long day, mate,” Stacker said and shook his head. “Long, _long_ day.”

Herc nodded tiredly in agreement. The he laughed a little and held his glass out to Stacker’s in salute.

“To ending long days. And a damned good glass of brandy.”

Stacker chuckled darkly and tapped his glass to Herc’s before taking another long swallow. “I’ll drink to that.”


End file.
